They walked out of the coffee shop into the drizzle.

Aisha stopped abruptly at the corner, her boots splashing in a puddle.

"Wait," she said. She turned to face him, hugging her arms around herself. "I need to know something. Before we go to City Hall."

Dominic stopped, hands in his pockets. "What?"

"Last night," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Did we... did you...?"

She couldn't finish the sentence. The thought that she might have slept with him-transactionally-made her skin crawl. Not because of him, but because she had no memory of it.

Dominic's face softened. The arrogance vanished.

He pulled his phone out of his leather jacket. He tapped the screen a few times and turned it toward her.

"I figured you might ask," he said, his voice low. "I know a guy on the security staff here. Owed me a favor."

It was a video. Grainy, black and white security footage.

Aisha watched as a woman-her-stumbled down a hotel hallway. She pushed open a door that was slightly ajar. She collapsed onto the bed, face down, fully clothed. The footage sped up slightly. It showed her tossing and turning, kicking off her heels. At one point, she sat up, groaning, and clumsily started tugging at the zipper of her gown, clearly uncomfortable. She managed to wriggle out of it, leaving it in a heap at the foot of the bed before collapsing back onto the mattress.

A minute later, Dominic walked in. He stopped, looked at her, looked at the hallway. He closed the door.

He walked over to the bed, pulled the duvet out from under her, and draped it over her. Then he grabbed a pillow and went to the sofa on the far side of the room.

The video ended.

Aisha let out a breath she felt like she'd been holding for ten hours. Her shoulders slumped.

"You slept on the couch," she whispered.

"I have a strict code of ethics," Dominic said, pocketing the phone. "I don't touch intoxicated clients."

It was a lie-the "client" part-but the sentiment was true.

"Thank you," she said. She meant it.

"Don't get used to it," he quipped. "Now, about this marriage. I assume you want a prenup?"

"Yes," Aisha said automatically. "My lawyer-"

"No lawyers," Dominic interrupted.

Aisha frowned. "What? Why?"

"Lawyers mean background checks. Background checks mean my... creditors... find me." He stepped closer, towering over her. "If we do this, we do it my way. No paper trail that leads to my past."

Aisha bit her lip. It was risky. Insanely risky. But she didn't have time for a lawyer anyway.

"Fine," she said. "But we write a memorandum of understanding. Right now."

She marched him to a park bench. The wood was damp, but she sat down and pulled a notebook from her purse.

"Clause One," she said, writing furiously. "No intimacy. We sleep in separate rooms."

"Agreed," Dominic said, sitting next to her. He stretched his long legs out. "Clause Two: You pay for my suits. I can't look like a trophy husband in rags."

"Fine. Clause Three: You have to attend family events and act like you adore me."

"I'm a great actor," he said, winking.

"Clause Four," she continued, ignoring the flutter in her stomach. "Monthly allowance. Five thousand."

Dominic looked at the number she wrote. He suppressed a laugh. That was less than he spent on wine in a week.

"Six thousand," he countered. "Inflation."

Aisha glared at him. "Fine. Six. But you do chores. Dishes. Trash."

"I don't do trash," he said.

"Then no six thousand."

He groaned. "Fine. Trash."

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at it. A text from Chester: Board meeting in 20. Where are you?

Dominic hit Ignore.

"Who was that?" Aisha asked sharply.

"Debt collector," he said.

Aisha's expression softened. She reached out and touched his arm. "We'll fix it. I promise."

Dominic looked at her hand on his jacket. He felt a strange twinge in his chest. Guilt? No, he didn't do guilt.

"Let's go get hitched," he said, standing up abruptly.

The waiting room at the City Clerk's office was a depressing mix of fluorescent lights and linoleum floors.

Aisha tapped her foot nervously. She kept checking the door, half-expecting her father to burst in with a team of lawyers to drag her away.

"Relax," Dominic said. He was leaning back in the plastic chair, reading an old copy of People magazine. "You look like you're waiting for an execution, not a wedding."

"Same thing," she muttered.

"Number 42!" the clerk called out.

They walked up to the glass partition.

"IDs," the clerk said without looking up.

Aisha handed over her driver's license. Dominic handed over his.

The clerk picked up Dominic's ID. She paused. She squinted at it, then looked up at him. Her eyes widened.

"Fields?" she asked, her voice a little breathless. She looked from the ID to his face. "Like... the Fields family? Fields Global?"

Aisha froze. "Fields?" She looked at Dominic. "Like... the Fields?"

Dominic didn't flinch. He leaned in, resting his arm on the counter. He gave the clerk a conspiratorial wink and lowered his voice.

"Distant cousin," he said. "The black sheep. You know how it is. Got the name, didn't get the money."

He made a frantic shh gesture, glancing around as if hiding from someone.

The clerk giggled. "Oh, I get it. Hiding from the rich relatives?"

"Exactly," Dominic said.

The clerk stamped the form. "Sign here."

Aisha stared at him as they moved to the side. "Fields?"

"It's a common name," he shrugged. "Smith, Jones, Fields."

"It's really not," she said. "But fine. Just don't let my father know you're related to them, even distantly. He hates that family. They crushed him in a deal in '98."

"Noted," Dominic said.

The ceremony took three minutes.

"Do you, Aisha, take Dominic..."

"I do." Her voice was small.

"Do you, Dominic..."

"I do." His voice was strong, grounding.

He slid a silver ring onto her finger. It was cheap-she had bought it at a pawn shop on the way over-but his hand was steady.

"By the power vested in me..."

They were married.

They walked out into the sunshine. Aisha felt a strange sense of vertigo. She was safe. Legally, she was safe.

Her phone pinged. A notification from her bank. Account Unfrozen.

She let out a laugh, half-hysterical. "It worked. He unlocked it."

She immediately opened her banking app and transferred $6,000 to the Venmo account Dominic had set up.

"There," she said. "Your first month's salary."

Dominic checked his phone. You received $6,000 from Aisha B.

He stared at it. It was the most satisfying money he had ever earned.

"Celebration time," Aisha said. "I'm starving."

She led him to a hot dog cart on the corner.

"Really?" Dominic asked, eyeing the questionable water the sausages were floating in.

"It's two dollars," she said. "And it's delicious. Eat up, husband."

Dominic took a bite. Mustard dripped onto his hand. It was salty, greasy, and terrible.

He loved it.

A long, black limousine with tinted windows drove slowly past them. The license plate read FG 1.

Dominic turned his back to the street, shielding his face with the hot dog.

"What's wrong?" Aisha asked.

"Nothing," he mumbled, mouth full. "Just... savoring the flavor."

Aisha hailed a yellow cab. "Come on. We have to go to the lion's den. I need to introduce you to the family."

The taxi idled at the wrought-iron gates of the Bartlett estate.

The guard peered into the back seat. His lip curled when he saw the cab.

"Ms. Bartlett," he said into the intercom. "And... a guest."

"Husband," Aisha corrected loudly. "Open the gate, Jerry."

The gate creaked open.

They drove up the winding driveway. The mansion loomed ahead, a monstrosity of stone and ego.

"Remember," Aisha whispered, gripping Dominic's hand. "You're an entrepreneur. You're struggling, but you have 'potential'. Don't let them intimidate you."

Dominic looked at the house. He estimated its value at maybe twelve million. He had bought a penthouse in Tokyo last week for twenty.

"I'll be brave," he said deadpan.

They walked into the foyer. Laughter drifted from the drawing room.

They entered. Gretta was holding court, surrounded by a few socialites. Cathie was standing by an easel, displaying a painting.

"And this," Cathie was saying, "is my latest piece. I call it 'Storm'."

Aisha gasped. "That's mine."

The room went silent.

Aisha marched forward. "I painted that three years ago. The signature is under the frame tape."

Cathie's eyes widened, then filled with instant, practiced tears. "Aisha? You're... you're hallucinating again. Mom, she's having an episode."

Gretta rushed forward, her face a mask of concern. "Oh, honey. Did you take your meds? Look at your pupils."

She reached out to grab Aisha's arm.

Aisha slapped her hand away. "Don't touch me."

"Enough!"

Barry Bartlett stood in the doorway of his study. His face was purple with rage.

"You show up here, looking like a streetwalker, smelling like..." He sniffed. "Hot dogs? And you accuse your sister?"

"She's not my sister," Aisha spat. "And I'm here to tell you that the trust is mine. Paragraph 14 is satisfied."

She grabbed Dominic's hand and pulled him forward.

"Meet my husband."

Barry stared. He looked Dominic up and down-the leather jacket, the messy hair, the worn boots.

"This?" Barry laughed. It was a cruel, barking sound. "You married a hobo?"

Dominic stepped forward. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't look angry. He just looked... bored.

"Mr. Bartlett," Dominic said. "I'd appreciate it if you spoke to my wife with respect."

Barry stopped laughing. There was something in Dominic's tone-a steel core wrapped in velvet-that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

"Get out," Barry whispered. "Security!"

"We're leaving," Aisha said. She held up her phone. "But I've already emailed the marriage certificate to the trustees. If you try to stop the payments, I'll sue you for breach of fiduciary duty. And I'll do it loudly."

She turned on her heel. "Come on, Dominic."

They walked out.

Dominic glanced back at Barry. He offered a small, polite nod.

It was the nod of a predator acknowledging prey.